


Know Your Mark

by virmillion



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Fighting, Gen, kind of, virgil is a vigilante
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-08-19 21:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16542902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virmillion/pseuds/virmillion
Summary: Virgil has a target, so Virgil sets about to take them down. Should be perfectly simple, right? Right?





	Know Your Mark

Virgil blinks, wiping the crusts of sleep from his eyes and slipping his hand under the pillow. There, a little to the left, beside that old Polaroid photo of the target, the carefully carved handle of a custom knife. He traces his finger over the engravings, down the spirals and over the ridges, before tugging it out to admire it in the cool morning light. The sun claws at the shades over his window, barely kissing the edge of the blade as Virgil runs it over his fingers, feeling the sharp bite just before his skin can break.

Not allowing his mind to linger on what else lies beneath the flattened pillow, Virgil kicks the moth-bitten blankets from his legs and rises, breathing in the faint scent of abandonment that’s lingered for so long. The floorboards creak under his lithe frame, little more than an aching groan as he shifts from a beaten up mattress to his feet. Dust particles dance in the soft white fluttering through the air, coming to rest in his greasy brown hair. He rakes his fingers through it once, twice, just enough to look presentable, and sheaths the knife in the belt encircling his waist. The cool leather, once rough and fresh, is now smooth and worn from years of use, from years of lurking in the shadows, from years of fulfilled contracts. The weight on his hip is encouraging as he shimmies between two wood panels of the makeshift, one-room hut.

In the light of soon-to-be day, Virgil rolls his shoulders forward, hitching his hoodie up higher to hide his neck. An odd insecurity, to be sure, but it’s always been a particular point of focus for him to hide. He lolls his head around to work out the cracks as he pulls his hood on, slipping in one broken earbud and breaking into a light jog. After so long of doing this sort of thing, Virgil has learned what will work to make him blend in, and what will end with his severed head being presented on a platter to his boss.

_ Speak of the devil, _ he thinks, ducking against the side of some cafe as his target tugs on the door. The bells rings cheerfully, announcing a new customer as Virgil rest his head on the wall. He has some time, then, if they’re only just getting their morning drink. Venti caramel lite frappuccino—pronounced “car-muhl,” of course—no whip, two birthday cake cake pops, and one cheese danish. So much knowledge has been afforded to Virgil by now, not the least of which is to know exactly who it is that he’s after. If he doesn’t know what they have for breakfast every weekday, and for lunch every Saturday and Sunday, he’s not doing his job right.

Virgil is  _ never _ not doing his job right.

He presses his back to the cold bricks, still lightly damp from the morning dew, as his target slides out of the cafe, each food item tucked under one arm as they scramble to hold the door open for the next customer. A half smile dances over Virgil’s face—always a people pleaser, this one.

As footsteps draw near—size nine shoe, brown loafers, one hole worn through the big toe of the left one—Virgil launches himself into the air, his bitten-down fingernails scrabbling against the bricks. His beaten-up sneaker nearly misses the next brick protruding out as an almost ledge, sending his stomach into his throat as he verges on panic. Adjust, correct, move on, and he’s scaling the wall, ignoring how the grit digs into his fingertips by the time he reaches the roof. His belt bangs against his thigh as he perches on his toes, crouched like a cat that’s ready to pounce.

Five stories below, his target carries on, completely oblivious to the sudden escape they just caused. Virgil folds his hands under his chin, watching the target’s form mingle with the growing crowd of people on their way to work. Once the target reaches the corner and turns right—fourth building on the left, twelfth story up, seven windows from the eastern side on the street facade—Virgil stands, relishing in his cracking bones. He bounces in place for a moment, feeling out the lingering stiffness of sleep before backing up to the far edge of the cafe’s roof. When his heel hits the concrete rim, as far as he can get from his retreating target, he runs.

Virgil has always loved this part of the job. He loves the wind whipping away his matted hair as he sprints forward, he loves the way his pounding feet send the ricocheting impact all the way to his skull, he loves the way his knife bounces against his hip, he loves the last second of being on solid ground. Most of all, he loves the toss-up when he’s airborne, one leg perfectly straight, the toes pointed to ensure more push off from behind as the other extends forward, just slack enough to not shatter his bones when it makes contact with the next building. Gravel kicks up through the holes of his skinny jeans, burying itself into his knees as he leaps.

At the last moment, just long enough to hold onto the thrill of the risk, Virgil hooks his fingers over the rim of the next building, his forward leg bending just right to cushion his impact with the bricks below. He kicks at the ledge, sweeping one foot up and over his head to somersault onto flat safety. He hardly pauses to reflect on the beady rocks digging into his skull before he’s up and moving, chasing down more buildings, soaking in the pure joy of risking his life when he could just as easily walk in the streets like a normal person.

This is much more fun.

_ Patton would have loved this, _ Virgil thinks to himself. He nearly falls out of the sky at the unwelcome thought.  _ Stop that. Stop that right now. Don’t you dare think about him like that, or your next target will be yourself. _ Just to prove as much, he allows his hand to slip off the last building in the chain on this side of the street, feeling the weightless terror as he dangles by one hand, twenty stories up.

Sweat beads on his hand that clings to life, clings to safety. He forces himself to wait, wait,  _ wait, _ wait until he can’t hold it any longer, wait until his fingers peel themselves off, one by one. When only an index finger remains, Virgil allows his elbow to bend, knocking his foot against a brick and tumbling onto the roof. He lies flat on his back, catching his breath as he berates himself.  _ You deserve far worse, going and thinking something stupid like that. Ought to throw yourself to the ground right now, is what you should be doing. Stick to the mark. _

Virgil drags his feet as he moves for the opposite edge of the roof, well aware of how slowly his target takes this walk. Enough time to get in the front door, to get to their office, to get their supplies and food settled down, to greet each and every stupid person because that’s just how  _ friendly _ they are and  _ always have been _ , even to someone so  _ callous _ and  _ useless _ as  _ Virgil— _

__ Shaking his head, Virgil peers over the ledge. The early morning rush always dies down right about now, the first risers having reached their resting points, the late risers not yet out, the average joes too tired to bother looking up. When the intersection clears, just for a moment, the schedule as predictable as ever, he jumps.

He scrapes his fingers against window sills, against loose bricks, against rain gutters, skidding down almost to street level before pushing himself off the wall. The calluses on his fingers ache just right as he soars, stretching his palms out to grip the lamppost like a monkey bar. He swivels around it, spinning like a gymnast and catapulting to the streetlight, grappling the green pole and allowing the momentum to carry him the rest of the way over the road. Over four more buildings, up nine more stories, and Virgil is on the ledge just a few windows down from his target.

Six panes of glass away, a particular sill boasts a basket of zinnias, baby’s breaths, and globe amaranths. Virgil ignores the familiar softness of the wafting scent, ignores the taunting memories that plead to be acknowledged, ignores the way the pedals bounce in the breeze.

Don’t get him wrong, he isn’t about to do anything rash. Virgil knows how easy it would be to get evidence on him, should he take out his target in such a public setting like this. No, no, he takes this as a prime moment to lower onto his haunches, leaning back on his current window to wait out the work day. Six spaces down, a window opens and someone sticks their head out to inhale the fresh flowers.

“I know you’re out there,” the target calls. Virgil almost freezes, almost flees, almost does something,  _ anything, _ but no, he can’t, so he just waits. His fears are unfounded as the target continues, “come here, little guy.” A bee flits closer, landing on the nose poking outside. “Got some new ones, just for you.”

Sometimes Virgil wishes he hadn’t been trained to know his targets so well, but picking the dirt from his nails with his knife, he supposes he hasn’t much to complain about.

“Patton! You shouldn’t be here this early!” a voice from inside exclaims, its volume vibrating the pane beneath Virgil. “I thought you had today off?”

The nose retreats, leaving the bee to bumble its way over to Virgil, a lazy trail of aimless exhaustion that ends in its landing on his wrist. “Yeah, but I thought I’d get a head start on work for next week. Have to close with the Kobai account, yeah?”

“Nonsense. You’re leaving, right now, before I tell on you.”

“Right, like we’re still in school, and that can scare me.” Virgil rolls his eyes, knowing this is a front. Patton— _ no, target, your target, he isn’t important enough to get a name— _ his  _ target _ is already well aware of his outstanding overtime, and it should only be a few short moments before his target is out on the road, humming softly to the tune of Toto’s  _ Africa. _

Virgil skids down to the street, watching the rubber of his shoes scrape off on the wall as he lands. Only a child sees, and their parent is hardly concerned with nonsensical ramblings about a purple and black Spiderman. Propping a shoulder against the building, Virgil turns away from the front door, his hand hovering inches over his knife. His target exits not three minutes later, passing Virgil without a second glance. Virgil follows, picking up a rock on the way. He tosses it down a darkened alleyway, waiting for the echoes of its skittering to stop before he pauses, as well.

His target hesitates, hearing the rock just to his left and clearly wanting to investigate. Virgil waits, forcing himself to be patient as his target deliberates. Finally,  _ finally,  _ his target makes up his mind, turns and follows the sound. With a slouched gait, Virgil moves in behind him. The glint of his knife is muted by shadows as the sun disappears behind a cloud.

“So you’re still here?” his target murmurs. He doesn’t turn from the dead end wall before him. Virgil ignores it, pulls on the handle, raises his hand,  _ do it, do it now before you can hesitate, just get it over with before he _ —

Brown eyes. Soft brown eyes, like melted copper, rising to meet his own black ones, beady like a hole in the sky. Patton stares at Virgil for a long moment, not even flinching at the raised blade. Virgil is frozen like a deer in headlights.

“I expected more from you, you know.” It isn’t until Virgil looks down that he feels it.

Once he sees the handle sticking out of his stomach, once he sees the deep red stain pooling around it, that’s when it registers. He hardly has the presence of mind to lift his other hand to it, to caress the freezing heat, to press down on the dull throbbing.

Patton pulls back his hand, carelessly dusting off his shoulder with a red-stained hand. His fingerprints smatter the grey shirt,  _ the shirt you got him for his birthday last year, the shirt you got him before you disappeared on him without a word and didn’t even say goodbye and now he’s here again and you’re you and— _

“What a pity.” Virgil feels it then, feels himself falling down, down, down, until—

Virgil blinks, wiping the crusts of sleep from his eyes and slipping his hand under the pillow. There, a little to the left, beside that old polaroid photo of the target, the carefully carved handle of a custom knife. He traces his finger over the engravings, down the spirals and over the ridges, before tugging it out to admire it in the cool morning light. The sun claws at the shades over his window, barely kissing the edge of the blade as Virgil runs it over his fingers, feeling the sharp bite just before his skin can break.

 

\-------

 

Roman tapped his pencil against the clipboard, peering into the cushioned room. The test subject sat in the same corner as always, his lithe form withering away more and more as the days wore on, as he continually refused food. “He hasn’t moved, Logan. He’s still staring at the wall, and rejecting all outside contact.”

Logan sighed, adjusting his glasses and turning away from the semi-transparent mirror. “Still trapped in his loop, I suspect.” His shoes clacked beneath him as he strode across the tiled lab floor to the opposite room, where another test subject sat surrounded by whiteness.

The soundproofing on the walls only served to further alienate the test subject, who pounded his fists bloody into the walls as he screamed. Even without noise, it was strikingly obvious to the unmoved Logan what he was screaming.  _ Virgil. Let me out. Let me see Virgil. Virgil. _

“No change in test subject P?” Roman asked, not turning from the motionless person behind the glass.

“Still upset, although I suspect our semi-transparent glass is faulty. He may be able to see test subject V, which could present complications in our testing.” Logan glanced at Roman, who wore a very obvious poker face. “You do know the consequences of growing attached to these subjects, yes?”

“Firsthand,” Roman murmured, not letting himself remember the last time he actually spoke to Virgil— _ no, test subject V, don’t mess it up, don’t end up like him. _

“Excellent.” Logan rested a firm hand on Roman’s shoulder, maintaining his cool impassiveness as he watched test subject V, who just barely rocked himself back and forth, back and forth, alone in his room.

“Maintain observation. Our testing is not yet complete.”


End file.
